Delusions of candor

I knew it was coming, and yet did nothing to prevent the disastrous outcome. I ate, drank and avoided the gym as though my soul would set fire by stepping foot on the stair-stepper. And here I sit, hideously encased in the one female torture device known to bring grown women to tears – if not AA meetings; the bathing suit.
Visual – if a Vienna sausage mated with extra lumpy cottage cheese and dressed their resulting off-spring  in spandex – Poof – you’ve got me in my finest beach wear. And yes, I know women everywhere, from the size 2 to the size 20 feel equal torment over this body-image obstacle – but I’m particularly sensitive to this issue today as our beach vacation approaches.  Surf, sand and shame – bring it!
This year I noticed a trend ; wise retailers have selected magical verbiage when marketing swimwear, it’s like Harry Potter goes to the beach with his fat Aunt; vanishing waistline,  illusions of longer legs, secret bust lifting properties. I’ve got news for the retailers, unless their product also comes with Siegfried and Roy, there is no illusion large enough to mask the size of my derriere.
On the upside, cover-ups are very hip, or so I’m told; unfortunately, several appear to be designed for those more vertically gifted than myself.  I guess what I really need is magic beachwear that offers not only instant thinness, but height; kind of a Spanks/Stiletto mix. Do they have those at Target? I’ll let you know what I find.
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